This is the part where …

… I slit my wrists.

(Don’t worry — the furniture is tarped. I won’t bleed on anything.)


So I have a new roommate, who is a lovely person yet is someone whose baggage is filled with drama. I found myself comparing this one to Psycho, as the amount of anxiety in my life is about the same, although it does come without the mean-spiritedness that the other one could generate on a dime.

I’m suffocating, I’m dying, I’m looking for sharp objects. I’m not used to having someone up my ass at all hours, accusing me of this and getting mad at me all the goddamned time for that. I’m so tightly wound, one of my colleagues invited me to church. Church, people.

And I agreed to it! So, if you hear of a big, blazing fire caused by spontaneous combustion in the metro D.C. area one of these days, remember your old friend here and leave a nice comment, mmkay? 😉

I’m just losing my shit because I have a groove. I’m on an even keel. I wipe butts all week and when the week is done, I wrap myself in silence. No more. Oh god, no more.

I could tell the story of being exiled from a hotel room during a trip we made together. Well, she had just left her loser douchebag ex after a big fight. And it was 1:30 a.m. and the idiot followed us to the hotel. Whereupon he stripped down to nothing and jumped in the whirlpool tub. And she got in with him — just to “talk.” Which I don’t doubt. But at now-2 a.m. and I hadn’t slept in days and I was just wound up in general, but how the fuck was I supposed to sleep?

I grabbed my laptop and hid in the fitness room. Fuck, I walked on the goddamned treadmill in flip-flops to work out some aggression. Luckily it was only midnight where my best friend lives (now 3 a.m.) and I could call and bitch. I was going to get another room, but I’m already poor from throwing away money on senseless things to keep some peace.

I need therapy. I need Valium. I need Vicodin. Christ, I had five Guinnesses last night (my only escape) and came home to a barrage of things I missed during the mere four hours I was away. And I was late to my plans anyway because I got caught in drama with her ex and HIS ex.

I don’t think I deserve being called a whore and a bimbo and a waste of existence by some hateful, double-wide, conniving, bellowing pig who happened to find his phone and see my number. And while I told the cow that I’ve been put down by better people than her, it still shook me.

I hate drama. I eliminated all the drama from my life. Men hate girls who bring drama. I should know. I like my work and my life. Well, liked. Now I just want to blow my brains out. The side of beef bitch just called my phone now. Insecure twat — he’s going back to you. Be happy and leave my friend and me alone, for Christ’s sake. Karma already hit you with the ugly stick, but I’m SURE she’ll come up with something else to beat you with.

In the meantime, I don’t know how much more I can take. I really don’t. I woke up to my friend yammering in my face about what I was “too rude” to not listen to when I was buzzed and trying to fall asleep (in my clothes) last night. She’s come into my room three times to tell me that she just got a call from the insane buffalo. I DON’T CARE.

I can’t even sneak in a few minutes of vibrator time because my door is always being opened so I can hear the latest installment of the drama. NOT INTERESTED. But now I’m the mean one because I would rather read my lab test results than hear the drama. (I never finished reading the lab results that I got six days ago — I balled them up and threw them across the room as I was getting yelled at for being selfish.)

Life, I miss you. …

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